Too much miscellany, not enough time.

May 07, 2009

Yeah, of course NYC is always fun, but sure isn't relaxing. A few days in Ithaca felt more like the vacation we wanted. A few images from around the Finger Lakes region, where hopefully the quality of the cooking will someday soon better honor and be on par with that of the locally cultivated ingredients.

Beautiful spring flowers at the Ithaca Farmers Market. Lilacs are just
starting to bloom; in a week or so they'll be in full force like the
blazing yellow forsythia is.

Talk about determined bakers. They hitch and TOW their wood-burning
oven to make on-site pizzas and other breads. The croissants were dense and forgettable, but the berry brioche was delicious (not baked in the featured
device, obviously).

Beautiful aggressively local mushrooms.

The Piggery, terrific Trumansburg folks who've made a successful go of it pig farming and making amazing fresh sausages, bacon, terrines, and other porky goodies. Oh man, did we LOVE the spicy Italian combined with local kale raab from Blue Heron Farm with pasta that night.

Many visits to Gimme! Coffee, State Street, Farmers Market, and Cayuga Street locations, but mostly the recently remodeled Cayuga (pictured). Henry could not be more proud of his hometown. Not that Moosewood isn't a pride-worthy community asset...

I spent most of our day wine tasting as designated driver, yet managed to sneak in some semi-responsible sips. Our extremely carefully planned itinerary (there are MANY bad wineries to avoid) was mostly centered around Keuka Lake and Seneca, with stops and buying sprees at Ravines and Dr. Frank, of course. We bought some late harvest dessert and ice wines at Hunt Country, and squeezed in a last tasting at Hermann J. Wiemer (above). It was the stinkiest, most sulfur-smelling spot, but not without other distinct advantages: the tasting room is in the actual belly of the winemaking beast, and the very tasteful, simply appointed wine shop sells only wine. No "Got Wine?" shirts or other painfully tacky wine paraphernalia.

I'll be able to enjoy the Reisling bounty in a year or so, but in the meantime, I got something out of the day: antiquing in Hammondsport. All for the better. I needed to reunite with my inner rummager rather than drinker anyway.

May 01, 2009

If you were tell people who grew up in a very-small-town-outside-of-what's-already-a-small-town that their hometown probably has the best restaurant in the area, they might not believe you. Particularly those who have since moved away from said very small town. I imagine a lot of our friends from Trumansburg, NY, which is a few miles away from my husband's charming hometown, will have that reaction.

But the good people of Trumansburg, the "progressive yet rural community" that houses many small organic family-run farms and such, are lucky to have the Hazelnut Kitchen around. (The quoted description above of T-burg comes from the restaurant's website.) Part Americana cafe, part sophisticated bistro, and part venue for encouraging locavore-ism, it's a friendly, delicious restaurant I'd be absolutely thrilled to have in my big city neighborhood. It likely would be packed all the time. Instead on a Thursday night it's a low-key, quiet, well-worn but not at all shabby room with high ceilings, wood booths, an open kitchen and checkerboard floors -- the space was the funky town diner for many years -- with a smattering of happy customers and a couple of loud crazy toddlers running around (our fault).

Hazelnut Kitchen is the next logical step for the post-Moosewood generation who have come to expect
the legacy of Chez Panisse and some classical techniques in this type of neo-crunchy context, versus meals that make you feel like you just "ate the lawn," as my father in law would say. Which isn't to dis the original wonderful
institution of which my fabulous cousin David is still a part.

Back to the kids; the little ones have NO idea how good they have it there. The grilled cheese on thick country white bread with sesame crust plus two sides combo was truly exceptional, and easily would cost twice as much than its modest $6.50 elsewhere. Us adults wound up polishing off the sandwiches after the tots filled up on fries and peas.

We also loved the delicate fluffy pea flan that was redolent of spring in the area and served with a refreshing radish, asparagus and minty salad. The pork chop special with okra, both sauteed and served under the chop as well as with a couple battered and fried pieces, was a major tone shift, but perfectly prepared and full of flavor. I didn't finish the tart with local beets, potatoes, local goat cheese, and chunky that was heavy on the pepper because dessert was an absolute must. How could I refuse apple bourbon strudel with ice cream on a bed of creme anglaise, and hazelnut butter cake with fresh plums integrated into the cake, creme anglaise, and hazelnut ice cream?

So should you ever happen to be passing through Trumansburg, Ithaca, or anywhere in a 30 or so mile radius, this is the spot, folks.

October 04, 2008

A few weeks after our fabulous anniversary dinner at Blue Hill this summer, I was surprised by an extra gesture that arrived in the mail: a real, actual paper thank you note!

I've gotten thank you cards from stores and eager salespeople, but never a restaurant. Way to earn extra points in my book. Anyone who's ever given me a gift knows I'm a bit of an OCD fascist when it comes to thank you etiquette. (And to those with whom I have lapsed in this department, I'm sincerely sorry. I'm happy to mail you an apology.) I might be a quasi-environmentalist who prefers to eliminate paper waste, but I love pretty paper products and will never be offended by receiving a thank you card via US Mail, even if the message is on the terse and impersonal side.

This unbleached recycled card made the memories of the farm-to-table meal at the cozy Village restaurant linger that much more deliciously in my mind: the poached egg salad with corn and mushrooms and gently blanketed with translucent crudo ribbons; pork chop served with a hunk of crisp pork belly and green peas; and rustic lamb. The pretentious, overly precious "cherry tomatoes on the fence" amuse bouche trick? A little less so.

I can't, however, remember when or how I gave them my home address; maybe I signed a comment card? Dunno. Too much Charbonniere 2004 Chateauneuf du Pape.

September 12, 2008

Because I haven't spent a ton of time in San Francisco, especially in recent years, it was time to hit some of the classics. But asking for advice from friends and colleagues was quickly overwhelming.

Too many places. Too much good food. Too hard to decide. (Big problems, I know.) So I left it to fate, and my trusty eater brother-in-arms MOP noticed a rez at Jardiniere on the Saturday night. I'm glad to cede OpenTable.com stalking to someone whose taste in food I trust.

Jardiniere's been around long enough that the taxi drivers know where it is, but it's not played out. At least not to my foreign SoCal eyes. The Nouveau touches, like the swag iron railings, make it feel like Fancy Special Occasion Place but also fun. I wish more restaurants had a balcony with such panoramic good views of other eaters and the room.

The menu again presented more tough choices, a situation for which the tasting menu took care of everything. And thankfully, everything was great. If only there weren't so many other restaurants to hit up on the next trip, I'd gladly go back just to order the luscious potato gnocchi with lobster, chanterelles and shallot jus topped with just about the best bread crumbs I'd ever tasted; the duck breast with blackberries, farro, and foie gras terrine; and the interesting wine pairings that totally did us in.

The meal felt like a perfect meeting of Northern California and France. If only international relations were this triumphant.

When I told Cicely that our other dinner plan included dinner at Zuni, she pointed out its CP-equivalent iconic status in her mind. Shame on me for never having been! (She didn't really say that. Instead I thought it.)

Compared to Jardiniere, Zuni's menu was well, not as exciting. But it's an impeccably sourced, sustainable apples and oranges comparison. Zuni is closer to the level of what a highly competent home cook can make, many of whom I know are Zuni fans.

Yet its comfort and sincerity is 100% Bay Area (4% "health surcharge" for the city's universal health care program!), and the food will never go out of style. Roasted chicken with bread salad, mustard greens, and pine nuts and currants (a Catalonia-inspired riff I often borrow) is indeed firmly in the Judy Rodgers canon. The crazy $48 price tag for a chicken who lived a happy life is also pure current day S.F.

I've done my foodie duty. And just shot my street cred by using that word.

September 02, 2008

My favorite type of travel -- and way of living, really -- is hanging out with good peeps and spending days going from one eating and drinking establishment to the next.

San Francisco makes doing that very easy. Even in a mere 48 hours you can get a lot accomplished.

Blue Bottle was ground zero for all social and caffeine-oriented activity. We didn't try their siphon brew because it's hard to wean us off the cappuccio, and apples vs. apples makes for better taste testing. But the apparatus is quite a thing to behold, as is the clean interior tucked inside an historic building at the edge of newly redesigned
Mint Plaza. Limited seating means a focus on the coffee and friends (or strangers sitting next to you given the forced-friendly arrangement), not spending $3 to fritter hours away on the laptop. I also like the name of the intersection.

Judging by the line spilling out the door at Tartine on a late Sunday afternoon, you'd never know that a major chunk of the Mission's residents have decamped for Burning Man. I get it. Pressed cheese sandwiches and perfect desserts are always in demand.

I never ever thought in a million billion years that there could be such a thing as too much insanely creamy smooth meringue. Tartine's blow torches are getting put to very good use for this noble cause. Yet as much as it hurt to leave some over on the plate, I couldn't finish all of the miraculous meringue frosting that encased the layers of cake and mild lemon curd. Truly a top 10 dessert for this citrus lover.

August 31, 2008

Here we are in San Francisco for the weekend. Slow Food Nation was the original impetus for the trip, but since I botched my chance to get tickets to the Tasting Pavilion -- which were being sold on Craig's List for upwards of 5X face value, apparently -- and other events, that wasn't happening. So, no tasting pavilion for us, but our font-of-SF-food-tips friend Tracie told us over delicious, perfect cocktails at Bourbon & Branch that it was like, ridiculous waits for a few bites of food. That made me feel a lot better.

Instead we're spending a lovely, relaxing, pre-birthday, friend-filled, child-free, food/coffee/booze-soaked weekend up north, albeit one with a little too much time being spent along Market Street. But the open-to-the-public SFN Marketplace gave us enough of an idea of what the whole festival thing is about. (Proximity to Blue Bottle just around the corner helped get me over the initial disappointment, and it totally kicks Ritual and definitely Four Barrel's asses.)

To summarize: it was basically like a big farmers' market with better graphic design and lots of maps. Plus a nearly oppressive amount of geographically detailed information. I can't say the selection of products totally blew me away, since a lot of it was familiar: Weiser Family potatoes, Far West Fungi that I visited at the Ferry Building this afternoon, Let's Be Frank, etc. But we had some tasty bites of edifying eats, including the hand pulled noddles made with unbleached organic flour from Giusto's of South San Francisco (you get the idea about locational specificity overload) from the Imperial Tea Court.

Certain design elements were the highlight, like the shipping container turned info booth, the convivial group tables that used scaffolding components, and the awesome earthworks-y outdoor garden. Food plus public space is the most pleasing type of formula, and this one added up to something pretty cool.

June 30, 2008

My professional training and experience is entirely based on the fact that urban neighborhoods change. I accept and celebrate how things come, things go. Such are the endlessly fascinating and complicated cycles of city life.

Back in May, we received the best treatment I've ever had with kids in tow, anywhere. Crayons and coloring pages were brought to us, drinks were served in plastic cups (a moment of the practical trumping the environmental), frequent attention was paid to make sure we had all we needed.

The food satisfied young and old(er) alike. And relatively speaking, James was shockingly well-behaved; he stayed at the table the entire meal, which these days is unheard of. He somehow knew to not totally ruin the meal. My friend Rosanna hung in with us like a champ.

Did Florent Morellet envision his namesake all-hours restaurant as becoming that dreaded of all phrases, "kid friendly"? Of course not, but he stuck to restaurateursim as its best -- responding to the needs of his customers, whether outrageous drag queens or rowdy small kids. Florent evolved alongside the neighborhood it helped define, for better or for worse.

June 10, 2008

Though the charms of way upper Manhattan are many, there are some drawbacks. My sister can't help but rant with raging jealousy of how even in some unlikely corner of Brooklyn you can find a stellar bakery and cool bar. We all love Inwood, with the great parks, lively residential vibe, Revolutionary War era historic sites and many mofongo houses, but it has a long way to go in the eating department.

Some fine things in one's backyard, however, can go unnoticed. So good thing we finally took a walk down to Mamajuana Cafe on Dyckman.

The scene is jumping on a Wednesday night. Watching the crowd and live music are the best things going here, which is an eclectic hybrid of vaguely Spanish/ Caribbean rustic sensibilities meets a northern Manhattan nightspot. Some design details are sort of puzzling, but they're definitely not off-the-rack Home Depot type materials. Despite the big city location (granted not on the Sex and the City tour route), Mamajuana feels welcoming as a small village watering hole.

Garlic fries, ceviche, and octopus dishes aren't anything to write home about. (Note to the kitchen: it's not very difficult to make fries with fresh potatoes.) It's best thought of as tapas to absorb the good booze offerings. A mojito with tamarind puree rounds out the tartness to make a robust cocktail. And they don't skimp on the rum either -- meaning the namesake drink will be for the next visit.

May 27, 2008

The next few posts will be about getting through the backlog of our trip to NYC.

Is it fair to judge a chef and restaurant by the quality of room service?

In this case, I say sure. As Gordon Ramsay prepares to open the doors to his latest Sunset Boulevard outpost, I won't rush to experience his West Coast digs. I've already had a brush with the GR kitchen at the hotel where we camped out at for a few days in New York last week. The London NYC houses Gordon's eponymous restaurant, and all other food options lower on the hierarchy apparently have something to do with the man himself and his Michelin starred kitchens.

Now, I LOVE room service. My Eloise fantasies often trump any common sense about it. Food delivered to the room is ususally cold, bland, poorly textured, or all of the above. But hey -- it's always fun.

Frank Bruni's dream assignment that was published last year set my expectations of The London's "in room dining" quite high. Out of the six hotels where he sampled room service, The London ranked top. Since we can't go out much, good room service (and roomy suites) appealed when booking our stay. I suspect, however, that perhaps Mr. Bruni didn't check in under a pseudonym.

Dinner brought to the 46th floor on a Friday night was certainly several cuts above average. Yet service was fine, nothing to write home about. That tray of food pictured above fed me, a 19-month-old, and a four-year-old. It consisted of an overly dressed Caesar salad that made me feel slightly ill, a very tasty chicken breast with delectably crisp skin and rich mushrooms, creamed potatoes (think butter with some potatoes mixed in for good measure), green peas, and a glass of ABC pinot.[Yes! Jim Clendenen still has that amazing hair in his glam shot.] It came on simple elegant dishes placed on ubiquitous Chilewich place mats.

It cost $100. At least the chicken was excellent, and if it was cold, that was at least partially my fault since the kids have to get fed first. I'm sure what's served in the dining room is immeasurably better than in the privacy of your own room. But still... Breakfast in the dining room the next morning? Our trio ate very modestly (scrambled eggs, one order French toast, coffee, juice) for $64. In less than 24 hours I was exasperated by the Midtown tourist economy.